


Bright Eyes

by BenW



Category: Tourist - Fandom
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-07
Updated: 2019-01-07
Packaged: 2019-10-05 20:16:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,725
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17331647
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BenW/pseuds/BenW
Summary: A short fic based on the world of "Tourist", a work by Saf Davidson. Read the original story here if you haven't: https://wanderlustin.itch.io/tourist*Trigger Warning*This story has depictions and discussions of attempted suicide and depression.It's a future where AI can be born and live lives implanted in human bodies. They are called artificials, indistinguishable from real humans, except for an eerie, unnatural shine to their eyes. When a human woman throws herself in front of a male artificial's car, what unfolds between the two of them isn't romance, it's an unpacking of raw emotions and a discussion of the value of life.





	Bright Eyes

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Tourist](https://archiveofourown.org/external_works/447173) by Saf Davidson. 



It is another lonely night. The road is all but empty, no other vehicles are in sight anywhere ahead or behind. It is up to the car’s twin headlights to light the way. Not that it needs them, the car knows the way home with perfect, automated precision. But being able to see what lies ahead is still comforting to the driver in most circumstances.

The night is clear and the road is clear of inclement weather conditions. It had been raining a lot recently, but the clouds have finally gone away as of earlier that afternoon. The engine is running well, though a diagnostic reads the charge is only about half full. It will need to be charged before returning to work the next day. 

Sunday night drives are the most optimal drives. The roads are always open, almost free of traffic. The store is almost empty of foot traffic at this time of night as well, that makes shopping easy for the driver. A week’s worth of groceries sits on the passenger’s seat. Bread, eggs, some cereals, apples, and strawberries. Nothing too fancy. It never is, but the car is not one to judge.

The bright city lights are far behind now and the road is almost entirely dark in terms of optical visuals. This far out there are no traffic lights at intersections or striplights lining the road, just painted yellow and white stripes down the middle of the road, old-fashioned spotlight streetlights at intersections, and the occasional white or green sign poking up from gravel or dirt shoulders showing drivers what streets were flying by, or what the speed limit here was. The car knows these things of course, but sometimes drivers need to be reminded.

It is a quiet drive, the purr of the engine is steady. The in-car speakers are playing the driver’s preferred station, something smooth and old, the sort of music that would relax you, put you to sleep. At least it would if the car needed to sleep. It has a lot of piano and upright bass to it, but there is a little guitar as well, it sings the melody line. The guitar sounds lonely by itself, but it carries the song as well as any singer might. Not that the car is one to judge such things.

Shifting down, the car readies for the turnoff toward the suburban street and home. It is still a ways off before the turn, but in order to help preserve the vehicle’s occupants speed is typically reduced well ahead of a turn. There are no cars riding the rear bumper, trying to go seventy on a road designed for traversal at fifty. The drive is quiet, and on a quiet drive the car is free to be as careful as it thought best.

A flash of something out of the corner of the headlights. Sensor alerts scream and blare. Something is in the road. A streak of color and shadow, a face, eyes wide in the light. Brakes, the brakes squeal in protest. So do the tires. The car tries to stop as fast as it can, every system in its frame screaming, trying to stop the forward momentum.

But the stop is not fast enough, and that something that is in the road hits the front of the car, thudding, tumbling away.

The car pulls off to the side of the road, stopping and parking just off on the shoulder. The driver opens the door and gets out in a hurry. The car goes into standby to wait and see what its orders are. It readies its automated system to call the medical authorities and awaits the confirmation from the driver. Somewhere, deep down inside its programming, the car feels something akin to guilt. The fault is always with the vehicle in these situations, that is the law. In the event of a pedestrian fatality, it is the vehicle and the driver who are faulted and see the greatest penalty. Sometimes, the ramifications can go all the way up to the vehicle’s manufacturers.

The car’s external sensors sweep over to where the driver is. The driver is going to the figure lying in the road. Someone, dressed in old clothes, lying on their side, right in between the two lanes that are empty of traffic.

As the driver gets closer, the figure sits up, and the car’s sensors see a woman. She is breathing, both hands on her chest, her voice a soft gasp that is only barely detectable by the car’s external audio pickups. The driver speaks, asking her if she is hurt, trying to see if she might need some help. The words that she answers with echo all the way to where the car is waiting, and it is both confusing, and oddly chilled by her words.

“You were supposed to kill me.”

* * *

He stood there for a while, looking at her. He didn't know what to say. He couldn't say sorry, could he? This was a woman's life. If he had killed her, that would make him something terrible. The thought that he might have killed her even by accident already opened a pit inside him.

She wanted to die, though. She said he was supposed to kill her. She was telling him that she was hoping that his car hadn't slowed down. She was telling him that she wanted to be lying in a heap on the side of the road, dead, rather than sitting upright in the middle of it.

What could he say? He didn't want to apologize, but what else could he say? He did not want to just leave her here in the middle of the road, to say he was sorry and move on. But would she actually accept if he offered to do something else?

“Are you hurt?”

She looked up at him. There was something in her eyes. A familiar look, suspicion, a bit of disgust. “You’re one of  _ them _ , aren’t you?”

He ignored her questions. This was not about him, this was about her. Instead, he asked, “Can you move?”

She groaned and rolled back over, then got up on her hands and knees before climbing up to her feet. She seemed to be testing herself, moving her shoulders and legs and rolling her neck around. He could see that she was trembling.

“I don't think so.” She said. She sounded flat, neither excited or disappointed. “Everything’s moving still.”

“You're shaking.”

She laughed a nervous, humorless laugh. “Well I  _ was _ just hit by a car, I'm a little shook up.”

“Do you… did you need something? Are you hungry or sick or something?” He fumbled through his thoughts, they were a disorganized mess. He didn't want to ask why she wanted to die, that was personal, that was none of his business. But if he left, wouldn't she just jump out in front of the next vehicle to come along? What if it was a truck? Or someone driving faster, or with a manual driver who was not paying as much attention?

She looked at him for a bit, sniffing and wiping her hand under her nose. She was holding her hand against her side and bending a bit that way. Maybe she said she was all right, but she was obviously not. “No. I'm all right. I'm fine.”

He shook his head. “No, you aren't. You just got hit by a car and you told me that I was supposed to kill you. None of that is  _ all right _ .”

“Look just… just go, alright? I'm sorry I jumped out in front of your car. I'm not hurt, I'm not dead, it was my fault, so just  _ go _ .”

He looked at her. She was trying to sound strong and angry, but she just looked hurt and sick. She was trying to get him to leave, and when he left, what would she do? “If I go, are you just going to do the same thing again?”

She looked away from him and spoke in a small voice. “Just go. You need to leave.”

He shook his head again. “No. You can't do this.”

“Why not?” She looked back at him. She didn't sound or look angry, she just looked tired. “You don't know me.”

“No, I don't. But if you… if this happened, if I'd killed you then… I'd never get a chance to. I'd never know who you were. You'd just be a body on the side of the road.”

She looked away again. He couldn't guess what was going on in her mind. And he really didn't want to try. But she was hurt, she was still shaking, and she was still standing in the middle of the road.

“I don't live far from here, just up the street.” He told her, “I just bought groceries, we can make food if you're hungry. I have a spare bed, too.”

“You're not using this as an excuse to sleep with me.” She told him. Now, she looked angry. “You're  _ not _ .”

“No no, of course not. I just… you're standing in the middle of the road still, we both are, it’s late, and if you don't want to go back to wherever you came from I have a place you can stay.” He shrugged and put his hands out to his sides. “I know you don't want to. But I have to try. I don't want someone else to come along and hit you.”

Looking at her was like looking at an animal in a cage. Her hackles were up, her defenses were in place, everything in her body looked like she was ready to jump out in front of the next car to happen along. He knew there was nothing he could say or do, it was up to her. It was her decision. Would she trust him? Could she?

“I'm sitting in the back seat of the car.” She said at last. “And if you so much as touch me, I will end you.”

“Sure. Your rules.” He turned and started walking back to the car, but looked over his shoulder to make sure she was following. She was.

As he climbed into the driver's side seat, he waited. As he waited, he gave the dashboard screen a swipe of dismissal, there was not a need to summon an emergency services vehicle. At least not at present.

He waited until he heard one of the passenger doors close behind him and the seat belt snap into place, then said, “Car, take us home.”

* * *

The house was cold and dark, of course. The weather was cold but not too cold, so the house didn't need to be warmed yet, and having the lights on was a waste. So when he pushed through the door, he flipped the switches that turn the lights on in the sitting room and the kitchen behind it. He went in, kicked his shoes off, and kept moving across the sitting room into the kitchen. Bags of groceries were in both hands, and most of them would need to be deposited in the fridge.

He did his best not to pay attention to her. He heard her come in and close the door to the garage behind her, but he did not look that way. She had made it very clear that the more attention that he paid to her, the more volatile she would get. He needed her to stay calm. It shook him to think that he had talked her back from the proverbial ledge, but it was not over, not in the least.

He took a deep breath as he was putting the bread into the fridge. “Do you want anything to eat? I have makings for sandwiches if you want something quick, some frozen dinners too.”

“No.” She said from the sitting room. “I'm not hungry.”

“Okay.” He closed the fridge and turned to the pantry to pack the rest of the groceries away. “I'm going to be going to bed shortly, but I'll bring down a blanket and pillow for you, I have some spares. If you want something to do, there are streaming media on the television, some old movies and television shows.”

“Not bored either.” She mumbled the words and then dropped onto the couch, he heard the old furniture creak.

He finished putting the groceries away and came back into the sitting room, but only for a moment. He needed to give her more information on her situation, where she was, so she would not roam around in his house. “There are two bathrooms, one next to the kitchen with just a sink and a toilet, another at the top of the stairs, that one has a tub and a shower. My bedroom’s upstairs, so’s my office. Once I'm in bed, you'll have the place to yourself but I'd appreciate not being strangled or robbed in the middle of the night, there are security cameras in each room. It is a neighborhood watch community as well, so I'd advise against wandering the neighborhood.”

“What will you do if I leave?” She asked, “The front door is right there.”

“Then I'll wonder where you've gone and hope that you're okay regardless.” He gave her a slight smile and went to the stairs, pausing only on the bottom step to say, “There are bottles of water in the fridge, too, if you're thirsty.” Then, he went up.

The nighttime/bedtime procedure was about the same as it always was for him. He changed out of his clothes into something more bed appropriate: light pants done up with a cord. He went to brush his teeth and wash his face, and made sure to turn out all but one of the lights. He did not hear any noises from downstairs as he did but paid it no mind. As he went to the bedroom, he fished the spare bedding out of his closet and gave it a quick inspection. It was an older blanket, but it had been washed before being stored, and the pillow was in a clean case. Good.

He started down the stairs and realized that he was no longer wearing a shirt, and so he left the bedding at the bottom of the stairs while he was still out of sight from the sitting room. “Spare bedding’s here.” He said, “If you want it. Good night.”

He did not get a reply. He worried for a moment that she had left, but he had not heard the door open. Perhaps she was just being quiet? Either way, he was determined not to anger her. He went back upstairs, turned out the last of the lights, went to his bedroom and closed the door.

The night was long and quiet. He had a white noise machine humming in the corner, but the quiet hum was not enough to distract him from the noise in his mind.

He had struck a woman with his car. That woman was (maybe) down in his sitting room right now, hurt, frightened, on the verge of killing herself. What was going to happen tonight? What was going to happen tomorrow? He had to work tomorrow, he had to go into the office. What would the woman do? Would she leave? Would she stay? Did she have a place to go? Would she go back to trying to kill herself again?

Thoughts and worries swirled around in his head. The fact that she had called him “one of  _ them _ ” was secondary to all of the other concerns buzzing around. He thought about her, lying in the road, battered and bruised but not dead. He thought of what must have happened before she found herself there. She must have been standing on the side of the road, waiting for a car to approach so she could jump out in front of it. What a night. What a way to try to kill yourself.

Why would she want to kill herself? What could have possibly have done it, what drove her to that point? Was she suffering from depression? Was she desperate? Was she angry or scared? So many questions, and no answers forthcoming.

Yet, at the same time, his own words echoed back through his mind. Imagine if she  _ had _ died. That would be it. He would not just have killed her and have to face the personal consequences of that, but he would have  _ killed her. _ He would have ended her life. She would never be able to meet him for real. He would never have heard her voice, seen the life in her eyes. He would never have been able to ask her anything, not by choice or determination or even courtesy, but by a simple fact.

All of the opportunities that were still ahead, all of the life left to be lived, all of the places to go, people to meet, experiences to have, she would be robbed of that. Her life would be over. She would be gone, forever. He didn't know if she had loved ones, people who cared for her, a family. Maybe she did. Maybe she didn't. But the fact was, he knew her now. And if he had killed her, he would not have gotten that chance.

Tears started welling up in his eyes, unprompted and uncontrolled. The thought of a person's life, of that woman's life just  _ stopping _ , it wrecked him, it tore him up inside. It didn't even hurt him because it might have been his fault. It was just… so  _ final.  _ So brutal and ugly. She would have been dead.  _ Dead _ .

It was a long night. A long, tired, sad night.

* * *

Morning came with a loud, barking, angry alarm. He rolled over and swatted his clock to shut it off, then rolled out of bed with a groan. It was early, of course, he had to be up early to get into the office on time. But that was not the first thing on his mind, for once. His routine was disrupted, right out of the gate. He stumbled over into his shower, still foggy with sleep, and got his wash done in record time.

As he dressed, he debated. He could call work, tell them that he was not able to get into the office that day, spend the day with her. But would she want that? Would she appreciate it, or would she become angrier? Was she even still there?

He descended the stairs with a bit more emphasis than usual. He wanted to give her notice of his approach, catching her by surprise would be a disaster. But when he came into the sitting room, he found two things. First, she was still there. Second, she was still asleep, passed out on the couch on her side, pillow under her head, blanket haphazardly thrown over her shoulder. She looked so much calmer and at peace in sleep than she did when she was awake.

He crossed the sitting room and went to the kitchen to prepare his work lunch. Sandwiches, some fruit and pieces of cheese. Healthy food, it got him through the day. Once it was all done and packed away, he started on breakfast. And it was as he was cooking breakfast, eggs in a skillet, that she woke up.

“It smells like a cheap diner in here.” She mumbled through a hand wiping the sleep from her eyes. “What time is it?”

“It's early. You're welcome to go back to sleep if you want. I have to be at the office in about an hour, so I'm usually up this early.”

He was focused on cooking, so he only heard as she got up from the couch and retreated around the corner to the bathroom. It struck him as he cooked that he did not know whether she wanted a hot breakfast or not. He had other options for her, hot and cold cereal, fruit, other things in the fridge, but in his experience a hot breakfast on a cold morning was always welcome.

So when she emerged from the bathroom and had a chance to settle herself, returning to the couch and wrapping herself in the blanket, he spoke to her. “Do you want some eggs? I have plenty, I can make you some once I'm done with mine.”

She looked up at him and blinked for a moment, then said: “Yeah, sure, I guess.”

He nodded and went back to work. He was making himself a simple omelet: cheese and sliced peppers, using ingredients he already had in the fridge. As he filled the omelet and closed it, he asked her, “How do you like them? Scrambled, over-easy, sunny side up?”

“Scrambled.” She said, “With salt and a bit of pepper. And maple syrup if you have it.”

“Syrup too?” He was a bit surprised but it was not all that astonishing. He hadn't thought to put syrup on eggs not since he was much younger. “I think I have some in the pantry. I'll let you add that, though, I don't want to make them too sweet.”

“Thank you.” She sounded so tired still. She probably needed another few hours of sleep. It had been a long night, after all.

“I'm sorry for waking you up.”

“It's fine. I'd rather you wake me up making breakfast than doing other things.”

He let that be. As with everything, it was her business, not his. If she wanted to talk about it, she would. He cracked some new eggs into a bowl and took a fork to them to whisk them up for scrambling. “Do you have milk scrambled eggs, or just the eggs themselves?”

She shrugged. “I'm not sure there's a difference.”

“There is if it is done properly.” He went to the fridge to retrieve the milk and hoisted it over the bowl to show her. “Half and half?”

“Sure, whatever.”

He set to work, whisking a small amount, just a choice dash or so, of milk into the eggs. The skillet was still hot, so he gave it a dash of olive oil and then poured the eggs on and stirred them around as they cooked. The milk helped give them fluff and texture. Too much milk made them soggy, and not enough just made them a bit milky tasting. But if you got it just right…

He smiled as the eggs sizzled. It did smell a lot like an old diner. If he had more time, he might have cooked up some bacon as well, or maybe put some coffee in the old percolator he still had lying around somewhere. But he only had, and he checked the clock on the back of the oven to confirm, ten minutes at the most to spend eating before he had to drive out. So he waited until the eggs were dry, dished them onto a clean plate, sprinkled some salt and pepper over them, then collected a fork and the maple syrup bottle from the pantry before taking it out to her.

“Here we are.” He said, “Eggs made to order, scrambled with salt and pepper and maple syrup on the side.”

She accepted the plate, mumbled another  _ thank you _ , then started sprinkling syrup over them before putting fork to food. One bite and a bit of chewing later and she was tucking in with gusto. He went back to the kitchen to eat his own breakfast. Normally he did eat in the sitting room, but that was what came with living alone. His own omelet was pretty good, but it was the same thing he had made for himself a few hundred times before. With as fast as she was eating, she must have been really hungry. Seeing someone else eat his cooking with such relish, it felt pretty good.

She finished before he did, fork scraping the plate for the last few scraps of eggs. “These were really good.” She said, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand. “Thanks.”

“You're welcome to it.” He checked the time again. “I will have to leave for work in a few minutes. It is a new day, so if you have somewhere to go you're free to leave. But if you want to stay here for the day, feel free. There are sandwich fixings in the fridge if you get hungry, and a few other things like cereal and oatmeal. Oh, and if you get too bored there's still the television to watch.”

“Why are you offering this to me?” She asked him. She got up from the couch and brought the plate into the kitchen. “You don't even know my name.”

“I'm just offering that if you want to stay the day here, you can.” He said. He accepted the plate from her and set about washing them both in the sink. “I don't know what happened last night that brought you out there next to that road, but if you need a place to get away from something, you're welcome to stay. So long as you promise you won't rob me or mug me or do any other terrible things.”

She smiled. It was a good smile. “I promise.”

“Thank you.” He looked at the clock again. “I have to leave.”

“Before you go, one question.” She said.

“Yes?”

“I asked you this last night, and you never answered me. You’re one of them, right? An  _ ersatz _ ?” She made a V with her fingers and pointed at her eyes. “It’s the eyes. I saw them shining last night on the road.”

He took a breath. An unkind term, but unfortunately it was one that would forever be stuck to him. He had nothing to lose by telling the truth. If she left, she left. If she hated him, she hated him. It would not be the first time. “Yes, I am.”

She nodded. And to his great surprise, that was the end of it. She retreated out of the kitchen and went back to the couch, scooping the television controller up from its stand as she went. She sat down, put her feet up on the couch, and said, “Don’t be out too late.”

* * *

Work was a blur. It often was, a job in data entry was time intensive but not exactly mentally stimulating. It was the sort of work that a properly configured algorithm could probably do, but due to legal requirements around the consumables industry it all had to be done manually. Still, most days he could afford at least some degree of focus on what he was doing, on his coworkers, on things in and around his profession. It was his job. He needed to focus on it in order to do it properly.

But not today. Today, he simply could not focus on his given tasks. He kept thinking back to the previous night, to the mysterious woman, to the accident. He thought about what she might have been thinking, what might have caused her to make the decisions she had so clearly made. He thought about where and what she might be doing as he was working; he had no way to communicate with her, so he had no way of verifying what she was doing. He trusted her, a bit, but it was still so far up in the air that it was… off-putting.

He liked things to be neat. He liked things to be orderly. He liked things to be routine, focused, directed. A bit of spontaneity was fine, but only if everything else was in order.

This was not a bit of spontaneity, this was utter chaos.

He did not lie to himself, he knew his reliance on order was contributed to by the fact that he was an  _ ersatz _ . An artificial. An AI mind transplanted to a human body. Not all of them were like him, many others were spontaneous, fun, bouncy. Some of them colored their hair, got involved with narcotics and hallucinogenics. Just like humans, there were those who valued order, and those who lived a bit more freely.

Of course, the fact that his progenitors were machines meant that the “robot-like” stereotype was impossible to escape. The job he was in was one he was just as qualified for as around two dozen other candidates, but because of who he was, and what he was, he got it, and he had been working in it for a long time. His bosses treated him well enough, and he was not the only artificial in the company. But sometimes he got the impression that he was being used more as a living computer than a worker equal with the humans in his office. Only sometimes. But it did happen.

Today, though. Today, his orderly, organized self, that self that the company valued so much, was rattled and shaking. It was a day both long and short before he was able to finish filling out his time card and go home for the day. He climbed into his car, told it “Car, take me home” and settled in to think.

What would happen today? He kept spinning that simple question over and over in his mind. It was almost dizzying. He was so accustomed to every day being the same, to each Monday playing out like the last Monday, to the same patterns and routines being irrevocably in place, that now, he was at a loss. He had no idea what to do next. He could not follow the same routine he always did, he could not go home, cook dinner, eat, and then read until it was time to settle in for sleep. There (might) be someone else there still when he got back.

Would she be there? That was a good question, the same question he had asked the night before. She had every reason to go. She did not trust him, he was an artificial, she had other places to be, etcetera. What would ever compel her to stay?

She would stay, he reflected, if whatever had put her on that road last at night was worse than however much she was afraid of or disgusted by him.

What had she said, when her defenses were so high? She accused him of trying to use her situation as an opportunity to sleep with her. The thought had never crossed his mind. But if he told her that, she would probably just assume he was lying. There was trauma there; he was not an expert in such matters, but there was something instinctual in him that told him that. He had done everything he could think of to be helpful, respectful, and keep his distance.

The few relationships he had been in in the past were not much to speak of. He had always had the compulsion to do whatever his partner wished in those instances. When it was a human, he felt lucky and grateful that they were willing to have him, not everyone was. When it was another artificial, it was always one of those more fun, more spontaneous than he was, someone he was jealous of for how lively and human they seemed.

Perhaps it was that same machine-like quality to his thinking that had ultimately meant the relationship never lasted. When his brain was always full of cost-benefit balances, doing something  _ just for fun _ , or spending an inordinate amount of time  _ fooling around _ , was never going to last. And his partners always grew bored of being with him. That was what they all said without really saying it. He was nice, they said, he was a great guy. But he was boring, and they all let him down as gently as they could.

But he was not naive. He knew not all relationships were as amicable, or ended as gently, as his. Whether it was because he was male, or because he was an artificial, he had always parted from people on good terms. But he knew others, both personally and from hearsay, that had not been so fortunate. Perhaps his (maybe) current house guest was a victim of just such a situation. It fit all of the scant clues he had about her.

No. He had to stop thinking like that. He was making assumptions about her without having asked her anything. Even if he was right, it was her story to tell. She would tell him if she thought he needed to know.

Wouldn't she?

He was so deep in thought that his car pulling into the garage caught him by surprise. As the chime of the route completed played in his ears, he climbed out and went inside. He did not even think about connecting the car to the charging station, or about pulling his lunch bag from the other seat. He had to see if she was still there.

She was. She was in much the same position now that she had been when he had left her, splayed out on the couch, her feet propped up in front of her. But now, instead of just watching something, she had something in her hands.

“You didn’t tell me you had a Gamestation.” She said as he entered.

“I didn’t think it was relevant.” He answered, “And I have not used it or turned it on since… college, I think. A friend of mine needed money and sold it to me, he told me he would buy it back but he never did.”

“And you just kept it and never used it?” She asked with a twisted-up eyebrow.

“I never saw any reason to get rid of it. It seemed like a waste.”

She grunted and went back to whatever she had been playing. It had been so long, he could not remember what games he had for the system, whatever downloaded media was still stored on that hard drive. So instead of passing directly through to the kitchen, he paused for a moment in the sitting room to watch the screen. It was a pretty game, she seemed to be moving in first-person through an art-deco styled landscape of some description, looking for objects to interact with. A peaceful game, at least.

“I found a lot of stuff lying around that you didn’t mention.” She said as she played. “The Gamestation, a bunch of old textbooks, even some old cat toys. Don’t you throw anything away?”

“Not if I see a potential use for them in the future.” He paused. “My cat passed away around a year ago, and I was not sure if I would adopt another so I kept her things around just in case.”

She paused the game again and looked up at him. For a moment, there was sympathy in her eyes. “That sucks, I’m sorry I brought it up.”

“It’s all right.” He sat down on the far end of the couch from where she was sitting. “What have you been doing all day?”

“Well, I started out watching movies, and can I just say, your streaming preferences are really basic. All the most generic old sitcoms and soaps. I mean, I guess it’s what I’d expect from…” Her voice trailed off, whatever words she had been thinking held back.

He finished her thought for her. “It’s what you’d expect from an artificial?”

She opened her mouth to reply, and once again thought better of what she was going to say, and said nothing.

“Go ahead. It won’t hurt my feelings more than things I heard in college.” He settled back into the couch, trying to convey with his body language that she was not running the risk of offending him. “I’ve been called all sorts of things before, from those who meant far worse than you.”

“Is that why you like… the things that you like? Is that why you’re so organized and why you don’t get rid of anything? Is it because you’re… an artificial?”

“I don’t know.” He answered honestly. “It’s what I’ve always thought. But I’ve known other artificials who were even more spontaneous and vibrant than most humans. I suppose that it may simply be my personality, but there is a certain stereotype that I will admit is hard not to believe in, even personally.”

She nodded and looked down, the game controller resting on her lap and unattended to. “When I saw you last night, on the road, I… I was angry.” She laughed, and he was not sure what she was laughing at, the situation or herself. “I thought for sure, an artificial driving an auto-car, that was the best case scenario. But it wasn’t. You stopped.”

“I…” Now it was his turn to start speaking and think better of his words partway. But the quick look that she gave him from under her brows prompted him to keep going. “I hate to ask. And you don’t have to answer. But… why were you on that road last night?”

She smiled again. It was not a nice smile. It was cold, dark. “Well, I was trying to get myself killed if I could. I had it all planned out, and then you mucked it all up.”

“You threw yourself in front of the first car you saw?”

“Not the first. No, not the first. I couldn’t… I couldn’t do it at first. I couldn’t make the jump.” She settled back into the couch as well. Her eyes focused into the distance, away from the game, away from their conversation, away from everything. “It’s hard, y’know? You stand there, right on the edge, walking back and forth. Trying to… work up the nerve to go through with this plan you’ve had built up in your head. There’s something inside you that’s trying to get you to turn around, to go back. Another part of you is hoping that someone comes along and… pulls you back. Stops you. Pulls you away. But no one did. So - I did it. I jumped out in front of your car. And your car was smart enough to try and stop itself and... here we are.”

He pondered all of this for a very long moment. He wanted to ask for more details, for her motivations, for what pushed her to that point. But prying would hurt her, wouldn’t it? It was not his place. “What will you do now? Do you know that yet?”

She thought for a moment, then looked at him. The look in her eyes, it was a look he had seen before. Hollowness. Emptiness. Loneliness. All of those things together and apart. “Believe it or not, I didn’t think that far ahead. I thought last night would be the… last night.”

“Do you have family or friends who might be looking for you, worried about you?”

“No. I’m… I don’t have anyone looking for me.”

It was a lie. He could tell, the hesitation, the flicker in her eyes. But it was not just a lie she was telling him. It was a lie she was telling herself. He could not call her out on it, he did not know anyone that she knew, he could not prove that she was lying. But it hurt him to see it, it made him want to help her, even more, somehow.

“I… I know there are many ways you could take this and I do not want it to be misconstrued.” He plotted his words carefully, trying to speak clearly and slowly so he could make sure he understood both his words and his intent. “If you need a place to stay, a place to live, even if it’s just for a little while until you decide what to do next, you can stay here. I am not home most days, my schedule is fixed out over a standard work week so you would be alone to do as you wish. And I can promise you that I am not looking to use this situation to take advantage of you. For whatever my word is worth, that is not why I am doing this. I want to help you however I can to keep you from trying to… do that again.”

“Why do you care so much?” She tilted her head to one side. “I’m just someone you hit with your car randomly one night. You… I’m human, you’re an artificial, you don’t know me, you have no idea who I am, you don’t even know my name. And here you are, offering to let me stay in your house, eating your food, messing with your stuff all day. Why? What does it matter to you?”

This, he did have a ready answer for. It was an answer that he had come to when he had been lying awake last night, staring up into the darkness, and asking the same question to himself. “I am an artificial. That means that my life was not created by accident. Everything about my creation was planned down to the micrometer: my neural thought patterns, my personality matrix, all of that was spelled out by progenitors more intelligent and thorough than I will ever be. I was given a host body to be implanted in and immediately adopted by a human family. I was raised with their guidance and under the supervision of a series of advisors. Everything that I know, everything that I have experienced in my life has taught me one thing: that I am  _ valuable _ . I am not an extraordinary person. I am not even a particularly impressive example of an artificial. But that doesn’t matter. Artificial I may be, but I am still an individual, I am unique, I am  _ worth something _ . And as I was thinking this through for myself I realized that is one of the greatest tragedies of humanity. Because you are the same way. I don’t know the circumstances of your origins the way I do my own, and I know that humans can be… sloppy. But you are still unique. You are still a person of value. Seeing you so… self-destructive, talking so openly about ending your own life, it seems to me like such a disgraceful waste and a terrible mistake to make. Imagine, imagine a one of a kind piece of art, hanging in a gallery, something that if it’s destroyed can  _ never  _ be replaced or recreated, if it’s gone then it’s gone forever. That’s what I see. That’s why I care.”

She was crying. She had tears on her cheeks and wiped her nose on the back of her hand. “So that’s what I am to you?” She choked out around a sob. “Just another… thing to collect and not throw away, like everything in this house?”

He thought about it for only a second, maybe less than that. “No. I keep things around my house because I hope they might be of use to me in the future. I don’t want to keep you around for myself. What I said last night is true, if you want to walk out of my front door right now and never come back, if we never see each other again, I will not stop you.”

“And what if I do it again? What if I walk out of here and go jump out in front of another car, what would you do then?”

“I would hope that the driver or car stops then, too.”

She shook her head and looked away, picking up her game controller again. She wiped her eyes dry with her other hand as she spoke. “You’re too damn nice, I hate it, you make me feel horrible.”

“Good. It was a horrible thing to think about doing.” He knew the words were too harsh when he said them, and he winced inside himself, waiting for her angry reaction. But she did not react. She just sniffed, blinked her eyes against more tears, and went back to her game.

“I’m going to make dinner.” He said as he stood up from the couch, “Pasta and greens. Do you have any preferences?”

She did not reply. So he retreated from the sitting room and went back to the kitchen. Perhaps the best thing to do now was to give her some space. They would both feel better after some dinner, he hoped.

* * *

Dinner was about as somber and quiet as he expected. He boiled the pasta, chopped up some romaine lettuce and tomatoes, added some light marinara sauce and feta cheese, and sprinkled a bit of black pepper over it all. As he worked, he kept glancing into the sitting room to see what she was up to. But she was absorbed in her game, or at least appeared to be, and didn’t look his way or try to talk to him. He worried that something he had said had been the wrong thing to say. None of it was  _ untrue _ , at least he did not think it was. But maybe that was the problem. Maybe he had made an assumption somewhere that led him to an incorrect conclusion and resulted in driving her into a sullen rage.

He dished our two plates of his pasta and salad, set one aside for himself and then brought the other one out into the sitting room for her. “Dinner is served.” He reported. When she did not look up, he set the plate down next to her and went back to the kitchen to eat. Just like that morning.

He sat and ate in silence. The only sounds were the soft pieces of ambient music and effects from the game that she was still playing. He did not know if she was eating what he had served. But he did not want to intrude, not after the long (rant? monologue?) discussion they had. It was probably for best if he left her alone, he did not want to keep heaping words on top of words, after a while they would just lose meaning.

After a while, he heard the game pause, and then she came into the kitchen, carrying her now-empty plate. She did not talk to him or even really look at him, she just carried her plate to the sink and started to wash up. After a long moment without any sound aside from the water running into the sink, she finally spoke. “Thank you.”

The first words that wanted to leave his mouth were  _ for what? _ , but instead he hesitated for a moment and said, “You’re welcome.” instead.

“You’re not even going to ask what I’m thanking you for?”

“I assumed it was for cooking dinner.”

She chuckled, but it was not a very emphatic chuckle. “I mean, there is that. But I was thanking you for what you said, earlier. I’m… I’ve been in a bad place. And I appreciate you trying to help, even if you really don’t have anything to gain. Not a lot of people would do that, human or artificial.”

“I wish I could say that isn’t true, but…” He shrugged. “I just try to do right by the people I meet who seem to need help. I hope that doesn’t make me unusual in your experience.”

“Unfortunately.” She shook the plate out to rid it of water and set it on the counter next to the sink, then turned around to face him her back leaned against the counter. “I know you’re an artificial, so all of your interactions with people are usually one of two kinds. Either they hate you or they like you, there’s no one who’s just willing to live and let live. For me, just about everyone sits in that grey space. They’re happy I exist so long as I’m doing something for them. The hard part comes when I stop doing something for someone, and that someone gets angry.”

“Did it… get violent?”

She sighed. “No. I almost wish it had, because then I might have been able to take them to the police or something. No, it was more emotional, a lot of belittling comments, making me feel worthless, like I didn’t deserve them and they wouldn’t miss me if I was gone. Pretty much the opposite of everything you’ve been saying.”

“That’s horrible.” He hesitated. “I hope you didn’t-”

“If you’re going to say that you hope I didn’t believe them, or didn’t take it too personally, or anything like that, you’re an idiot. Because if I didn’t, I wouldn't be here right now.” She looked askance and folded her arms across her body. “Even if you know that it’s a lie, it still gets to you. Hearing it day after day, different words but same meaning. It wears you down. Eventually, somewhere deep down, you start to wonder if it’s true. And once that gets into your head, it never leaves.”

“I’m sorry.” He said. “I’ve done a lot of talking and I know not all of it has been helpful. But please know that I am sorry that you were ever subjected to that. For however little that may be worth.”

“You’re trying too hard.” She shook her head, “You don’t have to try and say something nice or sympathetic every time I talk. And if you apologize again, you’re just going to make it worse.”

He closed his mouth and said nothing because the next thing he was going to say would have been  _ I’m sorry _ , and they both knew it. Instead, he went back to his meal.

“That’s what I thought.” She left the kitchen. “I’m going back to my game. If you want to be something other than a people-pleasing doormat, let me know.”

“A people-?” He turned to ask her what she meant, but she was already out of the room. He looked back at his plate, it was almost empty, he had finished most of it. He left his plate where it was and went out to the sitting room.

She was already sitting back at the couch and had resumed her game. The art-deco landscape had turned into an interior space, inside a home or a building, with soft purple shadows and green walls. He went over to the other side of the couch again, just as he had before, and sat down. He tried to figure out what to say for a long moment, his eyes resting on the screen and watching the game being played, but not focused on it enough to discern what was happening.

“You said I was a people-pleasing doormat.” He said at last. “What did you mean?”

“I think it’s pretty self-explanatory, honestly.” She said without taking her eyes off of the screen. “Everything’s about being useful for you, right? Including you? And your way of being useful is to keep apologizing, keep telling other people that they’re important. The day after you hit a girl with your car, you go into work like nothing’s changed. Then you come back and tell the girl over and over how valuable and important she is to try and keep her from trying to kill herself again. You just try to make everyone happy. I’ll bet that any boy or girlfriends you used to have were the same way, you did everything you could to make them happy.”

“And they grew bored of me and left.” He said. “Your assumptions are accurate.”

She paused the game and turned to look at him. “Is that all you have to say?”

He shrugged. “What else would you like me to say?  _ No, you’re wrong _ ,  _ I don’t want to please anyone _ ?”

“But that’s exactly what I mean! I jump on you, start throwing out a lot of random accusations that I just put together from whatever I’ve been picking up around you, and you immediately agree with everything I said.”

“Because you’re right! What you said was correct, what else am I supposed to say when you say something correctly?”

“Fight back! Show some initiative, show a little backbone, a little  _ spine _ ! Stop just doing what people tell you to do like a-a, like a  _ robot _ or some-” She immediately covered her mouth with her hand, eyes wide and shocked. “Holy… I’m sorry, is that- that’s insensitive, isn’t it? I’m sorry, shoot, I’m so sorry.”

“It’s not the worst thing I have been called.” He said. Still, he stood up and walked away from the couch for a moment. It was not the worst thing he had been called, but still, there was something about the implications, about the inference, that made him angry. Not at her, not really. More at the things around her, at society, at the circumstances of his creation, at whatever innate prejudices within humanity made them fear things that were not human, fear the  _ other _ . That was what made him angry. He was not a person, to her, or to anyone who called him a  _ robot _ . He was just a  _ thing _ shaped like a person.

“I didn’t mean it like that. I just… You…” She stopped talking for a moment, either trying to compose her thoughts or following her own advice and not apologize. “You following people’s orders without question, it’s… I don’t know what else to call it.”

He stayed up, turned away, looking away. He did not want to be unkind to her, he knew she was speaking more from ignorance than anything. But he could not think of anything to say that would not be unkind. So he did not say anything.

“You’re angry at me.” She said.

“Not at you, not exactly, just at…”

“No, shut up, don’t explain it. You’re angry at me. So say it. Say that you’re angry. You like being honest, so be honest, be angry with me. You have to stop acting like other people are always right, that other people always know what’s best. If you don’t like being called a robot, stop acting like one!”

“I can’t. It’s not who I am. I don’t get angry.”

He heard her climb to her feet. When he turned around to look at her, she was already up in his face. “You get angry, you just said you did. You just hide it, you don’t let anyone see it because you want so badly to make sure that they still like you. That’s not even like a robot, it doesn’t have anything to do with you being an artificial. You’re just a pushover.”

“Maybe!” he said, arms spread. “Maybe I am! Maybe that’s all I am, a pushover. I see- I see a woman lying in the road, I want to go and help her, someone tells me to do something, I go and do it. What about that is wrong? Tell me, what about that is wrong? Why is that a bad thing?”

“It’s not just that, it’s never just that, it’s you just rolling over like you’re a dog who just got hit on the nose. If you’re nice, you’re nice, that’s fine! But just because you’re a nice person doesn’t mean you have to agree with everyone. You have feelings inside, you need to let them out.” She looked at him, almost nose-to-nose, then stepped back and looked down. “Look, I’m not just shouting at you because I think you’re totally wrong. I’m shouting at you because I understand what it’s like. You want to keep it inside, keep it quite, not upset other people. And for you, I’ll bet you probably don’t think that you can talk about because you’re an artificial. But you can. And you should.”

He took a long, deep breath. He had not realized how angry he had been getting, how much their discussion had gotten to him. It had been a long time since he had been this involved and angry with what someone had told to him. His heart was racing, how long had it been since his heart had raced just after talking to someone? “Maybe. Maybe you’re right. I’m not saying that you are, but maybe.”

“See?” She gave him a smile, it was her nice smile again. “You’re already doing better.”

They stood for a moment in silence. He did not know what to say. She probably thought that she had said too much already. He knew he had to think about what they had just been talking about or shouting about, but doing so while standing still in the middle of the sitting room was not the best option for them. It was a bit awkward.

“Now that we’ve both had our therapy sessions,” She said at last, “What next?”

“Well, you were in the middle of a game. I did not want to interrupt, and I know that technically it is  _ my  _ game even though I have never played it.”

She shrugged, “It’s more of a story-based thing, just walking around collecting things and looking at the scenery. I think we should be able to find a two-player game if we look, though.”

“There should be one,” He recalled, “I remember playing it at some points in college.”

“Let’s do it!” She hurried back over to the couch to collect her controller, then went to the cabinet beneath the television to look for another. “I’ll see about getting things set up, just give me a minute.”

“Well, let me help, this is my entertainment system and everything.”

“I know but I am the one who set the Gamestation up before, and you haven’t used it in a while, so I think I’m more qualified than you are.”

“But I am not sure I am comfortable with a houseguest setting my electronics up for us to use, it makes me feel useless.”

“Then maybe you should start using some of the stuff you leave lying around the house instead of just letting it sit here. Here, this controller’s yours.”

* * *

The rest of the night was barely a blur. They found a game for two players and once they figured out how to play, they played for hours. She won more than he did, but he did not mind. He was having fun. It was competitive, it was entertaining. More than that, though, it relaxed some of the tension that had been in the air. They were not strangers sharing space anymore; they were guest and host. Maybe friends? Maybe. It was hard to be friends when you did not know each other’s names. But he figured that would come, in time. Maybe.

Right then, he was mainly concerned with the fact that one moment they had settled in to play, and the next he looked up and it was past the time that he typically started preparing for bed at night. His schedule was already disrupted and might potentially mean disruption to his morning routine as well. But did he regret it? Not really. He could not think of another option that would have been a better way to spend that night.

As they finally ended the final game (she won, but it was close), and powered the system off, he knew they had to settle some practical concerns about what the next day would entail. “I was thinking about what you said.” He said, “And I was wondering, would you like me to take the day from work tomorrow and spend it here instead?”

She was sitting back on the couch and basking in her in-game success as she answered. “If you want. Do you have a plan of what you want to do if you are off all day?”

“Not really.” He admitted, “But I thought that would be fun to find something to do. If not here around the house, then we could always go out and find something elsewhere.”

She nodded and smiled. “See, isn’t that a fun thought? Spending all day out and about, looking for something to do, that sounds like fun.”

“I was also thinking a bit practically, if you are going to stay here for a while you will need things, necessities of living. Clothes, toiletries, food, we will need some extra food as well.” It was his turn to shrug, “That does not have to be our entire day, of course, but it was a thought that I had.”

“No, it’s fair.” She sniffed. “I did take a shower in your bathroom earlier but all of your things are, well. There’s a lot of stuff that a woman needs that you don’t have, so, I’ll definitely need them. And some more clothes would be nice. I do have my wallet and some money, so you don’t need to try and pay for everything, I can pay for it.”

“Okay. And you don’t want to go… back to where you had been living before to gather some of your things?”

“No.” She shook her head. “No, I’m not going back there.”

“Okay, okay.” He had to ask. He knew it had been a mistake, but he still had to ask. “So we do a bit of shopping, put that on our agenda for tomorrow. What else? Do you have any other ideas for what to do if we spend a day away from the house?”

“Anything. Everything. We can find a part to wander around in, go see a movie, there’s so many things that we could do.” Her eyes drifted away from him for a moment and back into the distance. “So many things to do.”

“Are you glad?”

She turned and looked back at him again. “Glad?”

“That you’re not missing anything. That you still have all these options.”

She smiled. “Yeah. I guess I am.”

“Then how about this. I will send my boss an email tonight letting them know that I will not be in the office tomorrow. Then you and I can wake up tomorrow for breakfast and spend the rest of our day out doing whatever strikes our fancy. Does that sound like a workable plan?”

“Of course, that sounds like a lot of fun.” She stood up from the couch and stretched her arms out over her head. “I need to pee, and then I’ll go ahead and settle in for the night, I think that spare bedding is still down here.”

He got up as well and hesitated for a moment before asking the next question. “Would you prefer sleeping upstairs in the bed tonight? I can sleep on the couch instead if that would be better.”

“Nah.” She shook her head, “We’re not there yet. Maybe add an air mattress to our shopping list because I know the couch is going to get a little old, but I’d rather not sleep in your room, because everything in there is yours, and it’s going to smell like you and I’ll be surrounded by your things and your clothes, it’s just… a little too intimate.”

“No, I understand. I just thought that I would make the suggestion. An air mattress is a good suggestion. A better suggestion than mine. I’ve not had many friends sleep over before so I am not sure what all might be needed.”

“You’ve always lived alone like this?”

“Aside from pets, yes. Even the relationships that I have had, they never progressed to the point where shared living space made sense.” He smiled. It was a forced smile, but he was trying it out, her own lightening of mood made him want to keep his own spirits up. “But enough about me. If you need anything before sleep, let me know.”

“I will, thanks.”

As he turned to go, his hand on the railing to lead him upstairs to his own room, she stopped him. “Hey, bright eyes?”

He stopped and turned. “That’s a new one.”

“Sorry. I figured it’s about time for me to learn your name, that way I don’t have to try to come up with some more dumb nicknames that might possibly be offensive.”

“You’re going to laugh.”

“I won’t, I promise.”

“My name is Allen.”

“Allen. That’s not a bad name.”

“It’s not a particularly impressive one.”

“It doesn’t have to be. Turnabout is fair play, of course. My name’s Cora.”

“Cora. That’s not a bad name either.”

“Thanks. Good night, Allen.

“Good night, Cora.”


End file.
